Studio Living

Agreeing with every word...

...that Simon Jenkins says about Burma, over here at the Grauniad a few days ago. Oh, and could someone please persuade Channel 4 News to stop talking about how the Chinese earthquake is all the greater a tragedy because of China's one child policy? As if grief is proportional to how many kids you have, as if Jimmy Mizen's parents should by now be struggling to remember their dead son, seeing how he was one of nine. I rather suspect that if I, only child that I am, was crossing the road with a multi-siblinged friend and we were both mown down by an out-of-control bendy bus, my parents would not mourn any more than my friend's parents.

Bah.

How to quadruple your blog hits without even trying

Write about politics and race, apparently. After the mammoth comment-a-thon, I spent a couple of days pondering. And came to the conclusion that, for me, no amount of evidence of systematic sidelining of the white working class could get me to think more favourably of anyone who votes extreme right. I just can't have sympathy for anyone, or any group of people, that thinks casting a vote for a political party with division at its heart will help them. This is the politics of the me-first generation, me-above-all-others. Sod what happens to you, I only care about me and mine.

One of the depressing things about doing a degree in History is you get to see how people don't change. You can take any time period and understand the decisions that were made once you remember that humanity - as a general rule - always looks out for number one. This is why I've never believed that a political system which relies upon governance by the populace can work in anything bigger than a commune - ultimately, people will start screwing each other over in order to get more for themselves.

People are shitheads.

And sometimes I think the sooner we all drown, fry and starve the better. Which is why I burn all my waste in the back garden using a patio heater powered by biofuels grown in a former rice paddy in Thailand.

I jest.

Thing is, this isn't new. I was flicking through one of my books yesterday and, at the risk of having Godwin's Law invoked at me, came across this passage about the rise of the NSDAP in Weimar Germany:

"There are times - they mark the danger point for a political system - when politicians can no longer communicate, when they stop understanding the language of the people they are supposed to be representing... Hitler had the advantage of being undamaged by participation in unpopular governments... He could speak in language more and more Germans understood - the language of bitter protest at a discredited system, the language of national renewal and rebirth."
(Hitler 1889-1936: Hubris, Ian Kershaw)

Sound familiar?

But the Nazis were around at a time without all-encompassing mass media, they were talking to people less educated than we are (the bulk vote came from the German countryside, not the towns) and their attitude towards the Jews was, at that point, also one of expulsion rather than mass extermination. How can anyone justify putting a little cross next to the BNP or National Front when they live in an age with a media that, while stoking up fear, also has no problem pointing out the far right for the scumbags that they are? When we all grew up with knowledge of the Holocaust and the terrible ramifications of racial politics? Ignorance of the consequences of the rise of the far right cannot be pleaded. Not today. Not by anyone. Unless you're only looking out for yourself, and you want someone else to blame and to suffer, and you don't care what happens to them because nobody else matters except you and yours.

And if that's true, and if that's you, then I despise you.

The vote less remarked upon

In all the furore about Boris Johnson, the far right vote seems to have been far less noted (by me, as much as anyone; Nick and commenter Tom Royal jollied me into action). It's actually far more shocking that the London Assembly has a BNP member than a no-policy-wielding celebrity Tory extremist is Mayor. Never mind Boris Watch, Barnbrook Watch might be a better idea. The BNP got almost as many first choice votes for Mayor as the Greens. I don't care if that only amounts to 2.89% of the total, that's still appalling. In my neck of the woods, Greenwich and Lewisham, the BNP got 5,170 votes for Mayor and 8,950 votes next door in Bexley and Bromley.

But that's nothing compared to the results of the National Front. Lest we forget, NF is a party that states on its website they "would halt all non-white immigration into Britain and introduce a policy of phased and humane repatriation of all coloured people currently resident here". And it got 8,509 Assembly votes in Greenwich and Lewisham, and 11,288 in Bexley and Bromley. Nick's mentioned before that the BNP and National Front don't stand against each other so they don't split the vote the way the Left tend to. Maybe we ("we" as in anyone who isn't a right-wing nutcase) should start doing some similar co-operation...

I have an intellectual problem in that I can't verbalise to anyone who might question me, why I feel so strongly about the (re) rise of the far right. As far as I'm concerned it's just a moral no-brainer, just as social welfare to make sure the poor aren't left to rot is a Good Thing. And how can any white person, no matter what class or level of personal wealth (or otherwise) seriously say that the only minority in this country is the working white? (I read that somewhere this week, apologies to whoever it was, I can't remember.) According to the last census, less than 8% of the British population is from an ethnic minority. Yeah, you white people. You're dead oppressed.

All this tension that's quite clearly bubbling under in my area makes me slightly nervous about the murderer of Jimmy Mizen, about 15 minutes amble from my flat. It was clear which way the wind was blowing from the comments left on the local News Shopper website (found via Tom Royal; I tip my hat to you sir), with lots of people speculating that a description of the suspect would have been released sooner if he'd been white... The BNP is reporting that the suspect is of Turkish origin, though I had to search three other news sites before finding the same information on the Times (but then, that is the BNP's main - nay, only - angle on the story). Let's just hope we don't end up with the Great Burnt Ash Hill Race Riots of 2008. A non-white, killing a nice Catholic white boy? All hell could break loose.

Slack-jawed observations of my cat

A slight detour in the occasional series.

I open the door to El Mog, who has been out now for about two and a half hours. I watch in disbelief as he walks straight to his litter tray, pees, then sits back by the door. He looks at the door, then at me.
El Mog: Mraw?

I live in a city of idiots

I'd like to claim to be a week late to this party because of the sheer amount of my incandescent rage, but in reality I've just been busy. You know. But there was a certain amount of incandescent rage.

The Tories are on the march again, it seems - or, at least, they are in the suburbs, where 'our' Mayor of London seems to be most in favour. (The last week has seen some commentators cast Ken Livingstone as the Mayor of zones 1-3, and Boris Johnson as the Mayor of zones 4-D. Which makes you wonder what will happen to the Congestion Zone. Anyway.)

It's bad enough that we've elected an over-privileged toff (and yes, it's still "we", no matter how you personally voted) in a result reminscent of when we used to tug our forelocks in awe of the aristocracy, and an over-privileged toff with hardly any discernable policies (more later). But what's even more depressing is looking at how the votes panned out. I foolishly believed the second-preference system would work in Livingstone's favour, but it seems I overestimated the intelligence of my fellow electors. In the run-up to the election, I heard enough explanations of how the system worked on the news and in the papers and on the radio to make my ears bleed, but let's take a closer look at those results, shall we?

Lib Dems - second preference votes 641,412, first preference 236,685. UKIP - second preference votes 113,651, first preference 22,422. Green - second preference votes 331,727, first preference 77,374. More people put Sian Berry as a second preference than Livingstone or Johnson. Paddick got double the number of second preferences as Labour or Conservative. What was the point in that? Did those people realise that second preference vote was two pencil strokes wasted? Did they realise how little chance that second preference vote had of ever mattering? I'd love to see a breakdown of who those second preferences came from. Were they Livingstone or Johnson voters, filling in space for the sake of it? Were they people staying away from the two-horse race entirely? Voting can feel like a totally pointless activity at the best of times, but it's nice to feel like your cross makes a difference somewhere, especially in something as important as this. I can't image those people who second preferenced Paddick or Berry are particularly pleased with the way the result went. Now, I can fully believe that there are some liberal minded people out there who deliberately voted with their consciences, and may well have voted Green first and Lib Dem second (or vice versa). But my familiarity with human nature tells me there aren't 641,412 of them. I suspect 600,000 just didn't quite understand what they were doing.

I hate people sometimes.

So, we have a Tory Mayor. Probably the opening act for a Tory government. As someone who grew up in the urban north under Thatcher, I'm not looking forward to the next four years. My one hope is that Cameron keeps Johnson on a tight lead, knowing that if he cocks up London it'll reflect badly on the Tory re-election campaign. He'll make sure City Hall is run properly, on budget, with nothing stupid going on...

...so we get a ban on alcohol on the tube.

Except it's not really a ban, because the byelaw won't come into effect for about another year. What's happening on 1 June is a change to the conditions of carriage - I've been through the document (fascinating) and there is a section where it gives a short list of things that are banned (flash photography, skating) that could result in prosecution, but it's not exactly the same list as the byelaws. It's not clear anywhere what will happen if you drink alcohol. The Guardian reckons you'll just be asked to leave the train... woo, scary. It's very confusing, especially when there's already a byelaw dealing with the "possession of intoxicating liquor". But then, there's also a byelaw saying you have to wait until everyone's got off before boarding the train, so if I'm going to be prosecuted for carrying an open can of Fosters I'd want to see every twat who barges their way onto the train during rush hour also feel the heavy hand of The Law.

Incidentally, I've never drunk booze on the tube before, but I'm feeling a definite urge to do so now. Circle Line party 1 June, anyone?

And let's not forget the poor bastards who work on the tube and who'll have to enforce this "ban" since it's so damn high-profile. The tube driver who'll have to pull up every couple of stops to do a walk through the carriages for a spot-check (not that anyone would notice on the Northern Line). Oh, but that's hardly going to work, is it? Then who, dear Boris, will enforce this ban? The non-existent LU staff on the platforms?  The invisible British Transport Police? Who, exactly, do you plan to have confronting a drunk guy with a bottle of Magners at 1am and politely ask him to step off the train, please, sir, as that's the worst we can do to you? I know you can hardly expect the Unions to agree with a Tory, but this is the first time in a long while that I've agreed with Bob Crow.

Still working on those posts

Have some comic strip political analysis to tide you over. Let's face it, they're deeper than a lot of US network news.

Phew!

Now, I love my parents. Of course I do. They're not just my parents, they're lovely people. But when they come to stay for a week it's a bit like a whirlwind has hit the flat... Dad whipping through the place, doing 'jobs' and tormenting the cat (who usually takes the opportunity to vomit every other day) and Mum pottering, which is just doing jobs on a more low-key scale. None of these jobs actually need doing. The garden is a state because it's been months without a dry weekend. Same for the windows. I have no real desire to get a new kitchen just yet, pleeease stop coming up with suggestions for new storage options when I do... stop tormenting the cat, he'll be sick... hang on, I'll show you where I keep the bath cleaner as soon as I've set up the sofabed for myself... yes, let's go out to the Tutankhamun exhibition / Greenwich / shopping.

I could do with another week off.

Other posts to follow. Posts I've been mentally writing for a week. In a bit. Just let me rest a while...

Democracy in action

If you live in London you probably received a little booklet through your letterbox this week, outlining all the candidates for the London Mayoral election and what they stand for. If you don't live in London you should probably look away now, because this post is going to bore the shite out of you.

It's not news that I loathe and despise Boris Johnson. But even his manifesto surprised me. How are people being taken in by this? It's woollier than a field of sheep. "Increase police numbers"? By how many? "More uniformed officers on transport"? Again, how many? "Build homes"? How many? Livingstone and Sian Berry give numbers and targets in their blurb (I'm afraid to say that Brian Paddick is just as fluffy as the Tories) but Boris Johnson is just... meh. "I have the ideas to [make London safer, protect green spaces and get value for money]" he says. What ideas? Bringing back the Routemasters? (I'll let Diamond Geezer tell you about the problems with that.) Picking on kids who cause trouble on buses? That's just pandering... I'm sorry, but it's not just teenagers who are annoying little shitbags on public transport. The last people I saw playing crappy music out of a tinpot phone was a guy in his 20s and a little kid of about four, with his mum; the last group of teenagers who were noisy on a train didn't need the aid of phones, they were just singing themselves (what, we're going to penalise people for being exhuberant now?); and if the job of conductors is mainly to confront belligerent kids, I can't see people rushing to sign up, can you? But that seems to be the cornerstone of his campaign - he's saying to the middle classes in the suburbs, 'look, I'm just like you. I know you feel threatened by anything that's different. So I'll pretend I can do something about it just so you'll vote for me.'

And it could be working. Jeeesus. If I wake up on Friday morning and Boris Johnson is Mayor of London, I'll be tempted to walk out of the city and leave it to the morons who voted for him. Is this really all we're capable of, one of the greatest cities in the world? We're really going to be taken in by some celebrity japester? This is the contempt the Conservatives hold us in. They tried to give us Steven Norris for the last two elections, a man whose opinion of public transport was that it was used by the "great unwashed", and now they want to give us a man with absolutely no record of running anything bigger than the Spectator office (something he actually mentioned in a debate with Livingstone, a man who has run various London councils since the dawn of time, and Brian Paddick, who has run policing across London. The twat is so clueless he thought a tiny private organisation bested vast public ones. But of course he did. He's a Tory. So private always wins over public. Slightly concerning in someone running for public office).

But hey, he's loveable, right? Someone I know plans to vote for Johnson "because she likes him". She was a bit floored when I pointed out his history of racist and sexist comments. She's only seen his blustering performances on Have I Got News For You. She wasn't thinking about who would be best to get Crossrail through. She wasn't thinking about the congestion charge, or the bus system. Maybe Voltaire was wrong; maybe we should only defend to the death people's right to say what they like only if they can provide detailed, reasoned arguments to support their thinking. Shrugging and mumbling "yeah, but he's a laugh" Does. Not. Count.

The unfulfilled promise of tantalising delights

The other day I bought a tub of Skinny Cow ice cream - not, I hasten to add, for any fat-watching reason, but more because it looked the most interesting tub in the freezer. (Haagen Dazs and Ben and Jerrys are all well and good but sometimes a girl craves a change, you know?) However I think I've discovered where the fat saving comes in. Not, as claimed, in the actual foodstuff. But because it takes a whole load of heaving and straining to get the damn lid off and on. Or maybe they just figure that fat girls will eat the whole tub in one sitting, so who needs a lid that fits again?

Two other things now annoy me about this ice cream. One: my flavour of choice - Dreamy Creamy Cookie - is described as a "deliciously creamy dessert... filled with tempting chocolate cookie pieces and swirled with a mouthwateringly rich chocolate sauce". I have yet to find this sauce. Admittedly I didn't get all that far cos I was also fighting off a suddenly very interested cat, but still.

And two: how come the Americans get a more sophisticated website than us Brits? The Yanks get a website just devoted to the ice cream; we get co-marketed at like it's actually one of those abysmal wimmin's magazines - Fashion! Beauty! Music! Just give me the information on the sodding pudding, without any of those irritating turn-a-page-built-in-Flash gimmicks. This is why the website I work on has banned Flash, and why I have to resist the urge to shout "CRETIN!" at every department who employs an agency that says "yeah, and you can have your brochure done in Flash, yeah, and it'll spin on the page, yeah, and it'll make the page sticky, yeah". It's so 2004, people.

Web 2.0

One of my - and, let's face it, most people's - favourite interweb bloggers is Anna Pickard, of Guardian and, um, interweb fame. So I had an audible moment of joy the other day when I found a bunch of videos she's been doing for the Grauniad. The audible joy was unfortunate since I was in the office and therefore supposed to be working, but oh well... ah, she's just ace. It's an interweb love. You wouldn't understand.

Flap

There's never a good time to discover what the turned-up bit on gas oven shelves is for - and why they're supposed to point up, not down - but in the middle of cooking your dinner is definitely not one. Though what else you'd be doing when you knock the garlic baguette off the shelf, onto the flaming gas burner, is a mystery to me. This incident prompted two thoughts:

"Ohhhh, so there's a gap at the back of the oven, the shelf needs to point up to stop stuff falling off. Ahhhhhh. What a wonderful moment of enlightenment."

"Fuck, have I just blocked up the flue or something? Or burned that bread to buggery?"

The doorbell going at this precise moment will not help.

Bagelmouse: [running up hallway, oven mitts waving] Hello?!
Man at door: Hello!
Bagelmouse: Look the door's all locked up sorry keys are in the kitchen what do you want?
Man: Uh, right. I'm here from Sky -
Bagelmouse: Oh! OK! I have Freeview! Bye! [runs back off down hallway, oven mitts akimbo]
Man: ... So you don't want Sky then?

Conversations with my cat

El Mog: Ooo, what's this?
Bagelmouse: This is my work laptop.
El Mog: Why is it here? On the floor, with me?
Bagelmouse: Because my computer desk is covered in crap and I've been at a dumb workshop all day. And no, sitting on a wooden floor is not comfortable.
El Mog: It has a smell.
Bagelmouse: Stop sniffing it. Go away.
El Mog: It has a flavour.
Bagelmouse: Seriously, go away. And don't lick my laptop.
El Mog: Is it annoying when I disturb you like this?
Bagelmouse: Yes. Go 'way. And don't walk over the laptop... don't walk on... really don't... Thanks. I seem to have just sent an email to the head of PR that says "rfedmkl,".

Time lag

It's enough to make you think our politicans aren't really paying attention. Spending more time scoring points off each other than thinking through the consequences of a proposal. The abolition of the 10p rate of tax was announced over a year ago; did it really take that long to filter through to the tiny brains of our elected representatives? The 10p tax band has already gone, you total, total bunch of knob-ends. Where the hell were you all 12 months ago? Could it possibly be that the House of Commons doesn't actually care about the struggles of people on lower incomes (particularly not the Tories - I mean, come on) but saw an opportunity to kick the Prime Minister when he's already down? Oh, so pathetic point-scoring again. Sounds about right.

Fabulous

An engineer's guide to cats:

How I came to be

It's been said, admittedly not by anyone around here, that it's quite strange I should be a Liverpool supporter. What with being from 'the wrong side of the Pennines' and all. "You should be a Leeds fan," they say, managing to insult my intelligence and preference for not spitting at people in one fell swoop. (Seriously. Ever been to Elland Road as an away fan? It's mighty scary.) Then people conclude that I was just following the glory - I started supporting Liverpool in the late 80s, when they were a force to be reckoned with and Leeds (United! Leeds! Ah, the sound of 20,000 lobotomised gibbons chanting in unison) were languishing somewhere in old Division Two.

This is not true. In fact, it's a gross slander. So I'm going to put these rumours to bed and tell you the whole, frankly embarrassing, story of how I crossed the divide and came to be a Red.

A proper Red. Not one of those Manc bastards.

It's spring, 1988. I am 10 years old, growing up in a household free of sport, with the exception of snooker and formula one.

So, a household free of sport.

I know nothing about football. I'm not even interested in football. I certainly can't play football. I am watching Blue Peter (for this was not only a sport-free household, it was a BBC1 children's television household). Both teams that reached the FA Cup Final that year have released records. And they're both on Blue Peter. And I get it into my 10 year old head that I should support one of these teams to win this FA Cup Final thing, but because I don't know anything about football, I make my decision based on their songs.

You can imagine how bad Wimbledon's song must have been, given that Liverpool's effort was the abysmal Anfield Rap, notorious for containing the line "I come from Jamaica, my name's John Barnes, when I do my thing the crowd go bananas".

Clearly recorded in the days before Kick Racism out of Football...

Shit, it's so bad I can't even get past the first verse.

Anyway, any scholar of sporting upsets will tell you that Wimbledon pulled off the shock of the decade and won. But I never managed to shake off the mantle and carried on supporting them... the next year I was in tears as Michael Thomas scored that last-minute goal for Arsenal to wrench the title from our grasp, and I still didn't understand the game at all. (I ended up teaching myself the rules during Italia 90.) So there go your glory-hunting theories... my love for my team was forged in misery.

Which sounds about right for me.

People who know me a little better occasionally accuse me of being a Liverpool fan only because of the gloriously strawberry-blond curls of one Steven McManaman, but I point my geeky finger right back at them and say his first team appearance didn't come until 15 December 1990 (and while I did google that date, it was only to double-check because I remembered it), a full two and a half years after that infamous FA Cup Final defeat.

It's been 20 years. I'd like to say it's been worth it, but I'm really not sure.